The Blood of Lorraine

by Barbara Corrado Pope

  Out of the corner of her eyes, Clarie saw Rose raise her hands to her mouth as if a prayer had been answered. The maid hurried to her side. “Let me help you find your pins,” she said eagerly.

  It was working. If she gave up the braids they might begin to leave her alone. Braids were for the sick, for women who stayed in bed all day. A fashionable hairstyle, piled on top, with little curls coming down over the ears. Well, that was a sign of health, recovery. What they all wanted. “Rose, do it so it’s pretty. Monsieur Martin would like that,” Clarie said, although she couldn’t care less about being “pretty.” As Rose lovingly began to wind her hair, Clarie stared ahead, hardly recognizing herself. Would she ever be the same woman that Bernard had fallen in love with? Should she even try?

  “It doesn’t have to be perfect.” The impatience again, the fear. “I’m going to wear the hat over it anyway.”

  “The one with the little red feathers?” Clarie heard the lilt in Rose’s voice, anticipating that her mistress was finally consenting to wear something with a bit of color.

  “Yes, of course, it’s warmer.” Clarie hoped Rose did not notice that her chest was beginning to heave. She swallowed hard. It took every bit of control to remain gentle and patient as Rose put in the pins, carefully and slowly, making sure not to poke her.

  When Rose finally stepped back to admire her work, Clarie wanted to leap up and throw on her coat. Instead she gripped the sides of the stool while she waited for Rose to retrieve the hat and attach it to her hair. The black Persian lamb’s-wool hat, with the dead bird’s wings, in obscenely festive red. Bought to match the ruffled black woolen cuffs and collar of her gray coat, which at least was sober enough and normal enough to wear out walking with no one taking notice. Clarie closed her eyes and sighed when Rose stood back again. Finally. She went to the bed and pulled on her boots while Rose left to fetch her coat. When Rose returned, Clarie shoved her arms into the sleeves, pushed on her gloves and, with a parting smile, headed for the front door. Just as she reached for the doorknob, Rose came running with her lamb’s-wool muff.

  “No, the gloves will do.” Clarie did not plan to mince about like a lady. She was on a mission. Seeing the disappointment on Rose’s face, Clarie leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll be fine. If Monsieur Martin returns before me, tell him I’m at tea.” Then she gave Rose one last smile, lifted her skirts, and scrambled down the three flights of stairs, the black velvet pouch hanging from her left wrist bouncing up and down with each step. At the bottom, she yanked the outer door open and stepped into freedom.

  A strange kind of freedom it was! She gulped the fresh clean air as she peered up and down the rue des Dom. Only a few brave souls were out, holding the ends of their scarves over their mouths as they trudged through the heavy snow. The shops that remained open glowed with the flickering light of gas lamps and candles. This was not the busy, chattering Nancy that Clarie loved. Yet somehow a muffled, solitary city suited her purpose. Fighting the wind and snow would make her feel more like a pilgrim setting out on a sacrificial journey for her son.

  By the time she reached the market place she was breathing hard. The damp was seeping into her boots, and her nose and cheeks stung with the cold. For a moment she thought of turning back. Or waiting for a tram. She heard one coming up from behind, the bells around the horse’s thick neck jingling a warning. She stood aside and watched. The hooves of the great gray horse made only muted sounds in the thick snow and it was panting hard, snorting out bursts of warm air like vaporous apparitions. Poor beast. Her gaze moved to two shoppers leaving the market. Poor women. Heads bowed, they hugged their filled string bags against their chest as shields. Maids who had to work, Clarie thought, otherwise why would anyone be out here—anyone without a reason.

  I have a reason. Clarie clenched her jaw. I must pray for my son. She plunged forward, becoming as oblivious as the others to anyone in her path, looking up only to measure her progress. At last, the Saint Nicolas Gate. Then, the graceful steeple of the Saint Pierre Church, unfettered by snow, rose to touch the sky, giving her hope. She was halfway there. She had only to march on, straight ahead even though the Avenue de Strasbourg widened before her into an eerie emptiness. Her skirts were beginning to weigh her down, in spite of her efforts to hold them above the layers of white flakes. To keep up her spirits against a wind that had begun to blow against her, she recited what Madeleine had told her. This is the miraculous Virgin who saved Nancy from wars and plagues; the Virgin worshiped by royalty; the Virgin to whom the faithful run and pray in times of trouble.

  Then Clarie saw it. Unlike other churches, Notre-Dame-de-Bon-Secours did not face the street. The broad avenue ran along the east side of the church, leaving the entrance right in front of Clarie as she walked along the sidewalk. She blinked away the snow and slowed her pace.

  Notre-Dame was a bit forbidding. It did not soar. It was heavy and narrow, as if built to fit between the road and the priestly residences attached to its west side. She knew, because Madeleine had told her, that they built the church on this very spot in order to house the miraculous statue of the Virgin where it had always stood. Even the great Duke Stanislas insisted on being buried there under this Mary’s protection. Yet, Clarie was suddenly assaulted by doubt. She almost heard Bernard’s voice in her head. There are no miracles. And, if there were, as her dead mother and Madeleine believed, what miracle could the Virgin grant her? She would never get Henri-Joseph back. She let go of her skirt and covered her mouth to smother a cry. She would never see him again. Why had she come? What would the prayers of a sinner mean?

  Was she a sinner? Was that why Henri-Joseph had been taken away from her? Then she remembered. Hadn’t the nuns always said that to the Blessed Virgin the prayers of a sinner were the sweetest of all? Couldn’t she make sure that her little baby was not suffering somewhere, in limbo, alone? She gathered her skirts and struggled through the snow, almost tripping as her feet tried to find the steps leading up to the door. Desperately she grabbed one of the door handles. She had to get in. Frantically pushing the snow away with her foot, she grasped the handle and pulled and pulled until it opened wide enough to let her squeeze into the pitch-black vestibule. Clarie stamped the snow off her boots and swiped it away from the sleeves of her coat. She took a breath, straightened up, and pushed through another door to the inside.

  She saw the Virgin at once because a light from above burst upon Her through the center of a marble cloud over the main altar. It took Clarie a moment to realize that the sun had come out, and that its rays shone through a window purposely cut into the dome above the Holy Mother. This was God’s light. The rest of the church was empty and dim, hardly illuminated by the rows of stained-glass windows and votive candles, which lent a comforting, familiar waxy odor to the chill air. Shivering from the cold, Clarie tiptoed toward the communion rail. The closer she got, the more her heart pounded with fear and hope. She didn’t like the elaborate carved statues and gold-leaf curlicues and luxurious marble that surrounded the Virgin. This was not her kind of faith, if, indeed, she had any real faith.

  Before the main altar, she took hold of the icy cold brass rail with her gloved hands as she bent to her knees, never taking her eyes off the Virgin. Clarie saw then how old and humble She was. Like a mother. Like Clarie’s mother. The Virgin held out her arms to spread her great mantle over the supplicants that knelt before her, embracing them with her compassion. She was not fancy or majestic. She was plain, simple, an alabaster white statue, yellowed ever so slightly by the countless candles that other desperate souls had burnt before Her. “Blessed Mother,” Clarie whispered, “take me back. I will be humble. I will obey. I will be worthy.” Clarie bowed her head. To be truly worthy, what would she have to give up? Not Bernard, surely. Some of his ideas, yes. And teaching? Had she sinned in leading her students to believe that they could make the world a better place? Now she knew that the world was filled with tragedy. That Madeleine was right, there was pain and sin e
verywhere. “I know that now, Mother, I do.” She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes closed. She did not want to cry again. She was tired of crying.

  Then something, the sound of a voice like that of her own dear dead mother, made her lift up her eyes, toward the light, toward the cloud above the Virgin’s head. She gasped. She saw that the marble cloud was carved with cherubim and Henri-Joseph was among them. Steadying herself on the altar rail, she rose up and peered hard above her. It was him. She could tell because unlike the carved statues, her baby had a fringe of black hair, just like he had when he came out of her womb. But he was older now, healthier, with fat cheeks like the other smiling marble angels. Her son, in heaven, smiling down at her. She clutched her hands together and raised them up in gratitude. The miraculous Virgin had given her a sign, Clarie was sure of it. Her baby was in heaven, her mother was taking care of him, and both of them would be waiting for her there forever.

  If the Virgin had given her a sign, had she been forgiven for the sin that took Henri-Joseph from her? If only she knew what she had done, she’d never do it again. She knew then that she needed to confess. She stumbled down away from the altar to the side of the church, searching through the dark for a confessional. She found it, but of course no one was there. She was alone. Weeping in frustration, she knelt down and laid her head against the polished wooden confessional. She began to pray, for her son, for her mother, and for herself. When she had exhausted her prayers, she put her hands against the confessional to steady herself as she rose to her feet. She dried her cheeks and nose with a handkerchief and squinted at the cloud of cherubim above the Virgin. She let out another sob. Henri-Joseph was no longer there. He had gone back.

  Although she was still trembling, she managed, by holding on to the chairs along the aisle, to begin her journey back. The shadows cast by the stained glass windows swirled before her on the floor in dizzying patterns. She steadied herself at the door leading into the vestibule before pulling it open. The entryway no longer seemed so dark, and the more she pushed at the outside door against the resisting snow, the stronger she became.

  Panting, her breath preceding her in wispy little clouds, she began the walk back to the center of the city. A light hopeful blue had pushed away the gray in the sky. The snow had stopped. Instinctively she knew that she must keep her vision a secret. She did not want Bernard to think that she had gone mad.

  35

  MADELEINE DRIBBLED THE LAST TEPID drops from the pewter teapot. She hoped the waiter would not notice and ask if she wanted more. Reaching her hand under the table, she pressed and pinched the brown satin sack on her lap, feeling for coins. She had barely enough to pay for the tea and the biscuits that lay in waiting upon a little silver platter in the middle of the table. She was saving them for Clarie. Where was she?

  Madeleine frowned as she opened the watch that hung on a gold chain around her neck. Three-thirty. It was unlike Clarie to be late. Or to forget. Unless? Madeleine shook her head slowly as she remembered their last conversation. Clarie couldn’t have gone to Notre-Dame. Not today. The poor girl wasn’t well enough to trudge through a storm.

  Well, Madeleine thought, as she pretended to sip from her cup, if Clarie had gone all the way out there, she should be happy that they were meeting in the Café Stanislas. It was warmer than either of their apartments. And more festive. Madeleine replaced her cup in the saucer with a sigh. Except for today. The tables were almost all empty. In the late afternoon they were usually filled with fashionable women in threes and fours, chattering away, their feathery hats bobbing with each bon mot. Madeleine missed the hubbub and the fun of grading them on their taste and imagining what they were saying to each other. Even the great steel coffee machine behind the bar was mute, for there was no need for anyone to pull down its levers and hiss its delicious, exotic vapors into the air. All because of the snow.

  Madeleine shrank back into the warm corner she had chosen for her observations and glanced to her side. Three tables away a man in a drab suit sat, like her, with his back to the mirrored wall, nursing his lonely glass of beer with the same care she was taking with her tea. She clucked disapprovingly. He hadn’t even bothered to take off his bowler. He seemed to be staring at the soldiers who stood at the bar, talking and laughing. Undoubtedly the poor little man was envying their easy camaraderie and obvious gallantry. He was not worthy of her attention, but the officers, downing their little glasses of whiskey and cognac with manly briskness, certainly were. They did make a handsome trio in their blue jackets, aglitter with gold buttons and braiding and epaulettes. Our protectors. Her chest swelled with pride. They’d show the Huns one of these days. She was sure of it.

  Without warning, an unbeckoned image sent a rush of blood throttling through her veins from head to toe. What if the tallest of them decided to take her in his arms and sweep her away? What would his pointed black goatee and hot breath feel like against her cheeks and neck? Her hand flew to her mouth as if it was about to blurt out these ridiculous, sinful thoughts. She slunk back again, deflated, and stared at the cuffs of the ready-made dark blue jacket that covered her prim shirtwaist. Anyone with eyes in his head would take her for a spinster schoolteacher or, worse, a worn-out shopgirl. Oh, how she wished Clarie would get here. Full or empty, cafés weren’t festive when you were alone.

  Suddenly Madeleine felt a burst of cold air and watched with relief as Clarie spread apart the heavy black velvet curtain that separated the interior from the outside door. Immediately a white-shirted waiter, carrying a tray of glasses, came to greet her. “Madame, you would like?” he asked. Before Clarie was able to answer, one of the officers had bounded toward them. “May I take your coat, Madame?”

  Madeleine twisted herself around to get a better look. Was Clarie blushing? Or flirting? Even from across the room Madeleine detected the lowering of Clarie’s almond-shaped brown eyes. Surely she must know these were her best feature. Madeleine heard her demur, “No, I’d like to keep it with me. Thank you. I’m looking for—”

  “I believe she is there, Madame.” The waiter gestured with his free hand toward Madeleine.

  “Yes, yes. Thank you.” Clarie gave the waiter and the soldier a wan smile as she moved between them toward Madeleine.

  Two men at her feet. The handsome, mustachioed officer, whom Madeleine had picked out as the youngest of them all, followed Clarie with his gaze. Clarie had no idea how easy life had been for her. Until two weeks ago. Madeleine bowed her head remembering Clarie’s tragedy. That’s why she had to find ways to help Clarie, to get her to accept and understand what had happened to her. And, of course, to cheer her up.

  “Madeleine, I am so sorry I’m late. I didn’t know how long it would take to walk through the snow.”

  The troubled look on Clarie’s face and the urgent sincerity in her voice forced a smile to Madeleine’s lips. How could she be angry with the dear girl? They both fell silent as the waiter, who had come up from behind, helped Clarie into her seat.

  “So, you went to Notre-Dame?” Madeleine raised her eyebrows. She didn’t know whether to be disapproving of Clarie’s foolishness at venturing out into the storm or happy that her friend had sought out the miraculous Virgin.

  Clarie nodded as she took off her gloves and laid them on the table. Her face was red from the cold and she was panting a little. She rubbed her hands together.

  “Some hot tea, Madame?” the waiter asked.

  “Yes, please.” Clarie began to unbutton her coat.

  The waiter flipped open the top of Madeleine’s teapot and saw that it was empty. He swept the pot away, leaving them alone.

  “You went on a day like today?”

  Clarie kept nodding as she pulled off her coat.

  “And?”

  Clarie bit her lip, as if thinking of what to say. “The church was lovely inside,” she offered. “A little florid for my taste. Baroque, I guess, and the statue was very moving, just as you told me.”

  “And the tombs.”

&nbs
p; Clarie hesitated. “The tombs, yes, impressive.”

  Obviously she hadn’t taken any time to study them, even though the tombs of Duke Stanislas and his consort were famous. But that was neither here nor there, Madeleine thought as she straightened up eager to hear all. The important things were spiritual.

  She put her hand on top of Clarie’s. “And you prayed.”

  “Yes,” Clarie whispered, “I prayed.” She withdrew her hand. Clarie took one of the tea biscuits from the plate and began to chew, avoiding Madeleine’s eyes.

  “Is there something wrong, my dear?”

  “No.” Clarie shook her head. “I’m really feeling better. Every day. Thank you for suggesting this. It’s nice to be out.”

  “Even though the place is half-full.”

  She shrugged.

  Madeleine sighed. Half the time she tried to talk to Clarie, she seemed to be in some other place.

  “Your infusion, Madame.” The waiter again. “Anything else?”

  “Yes,” Clarie sounded eager for the first time since she had entered the café. “Some more of those,” she said, pointing to the silver plate in the center of their table. After the waiter left them, Clarie actually did brighten up. “I’m starving. Madeleine, I’m actually hungry!”

  “Then the walk did you good.” Madeleine hoped that Clarie would remember that it was she who had suggested this pilgrimage.

  “Yes, I wanted to walk back too, but by the time I got to Saint Pierre, I realized how late I was, and I hopped on a tram. I was the only one.” For just an instant Clarie seemed like her old self, but then the tumble of words slowed to a trickle. “What a strange day this is.” She paused and reached for Madeleine’s hand. “I really am sorry. Bernard gets so irritated with me when I’m late.”

  Him again. How was she going to save Clarie’s soul if everything was about her husband the judge and his godless Republic? Still, Madeleine found it in herself to return Clarie’s grasp. “It’s all right, dear, I was only worried about you. But you’re here all in one piece.”